


Smoking Gingersnaps

by Piano_Padawan



Series: GingerPilot Holiday 2018 - 2019 [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: But I have a habit of rating everything T and up out of paranoia, Corgi BB-8, Damerux, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gingerpilot, Humor, Hux is So Done, I don't know why this is rated T, M/M, gingerpilotholiday2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:12:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piano_Padawan/pseuds/Piano_Padawan
Summary: Armitage Hux wakes up to a very loud smoke alarm, tortuous gingersnaps, and Poe's attempt at a sweet surprise.





	Smoking Gingersnaps

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own or claim to own Star Wars or any of the characters and themes mentioned here. There's a reference to the Lord of the Rings later. I don't own that either.
> 
> A/N: This is for the sixth day of GingerPilot Holiday 2018. The theme was Winter Sweet Treats and Apparel. Hope you enjoy it!

_Armitage Hux was having one of those rare days when everything went according to plan, which was nothing short of extraordinary amidst the havoc of Christmas festivities. With the in-laws, cousins and assorted acquaintances finally out of the house, he finally had a moment alone with his husband. They were seated by the fire, sipping hot chocolate. Millicent was curled up in his lap, purring. Even Beebee was sleeping peacefully, apparently uninterested in chewing up their beautiful, new, ice-blue couch…_

_It then struck him that he and Poe owned neither a beautiful, new, ice-blue couch nor a fireplace in their apartment building._

_Before Armitage could question their strange new living arrangements, the placid scene was interrupted by a high-pitched siren. He got out of his seat, making Millicent jump off onto the floor in shock, and covered his ears, looking to Poe for an explanation. His husband merely shrugged and said:_

_“The alarm’s going off. I guess it finally happened.”_

_“What happened?” Armitage demanded._

_“The winter hoeliday apocalypse,” Poe replied with supreme equanimity._

Armitage woke up before he could question his husband on what in the world a “winter hoeliday apocalypse” was. The chic living room and all its flawless organization had disappeared with the rest of the dream, giving way to a cramped bedroom, the floor of which was still a maze of boxes from the move-in. Fortunately, the threat of the apocalypse had also been contained in the nightmare. To Armitage’s dismay, however, the agonizing blare of the smoke detector was quite real.

He stumbled out of bed, nearly tripping over Beebee in the process. The corgi had taken up a habit of sleeping directly next to Armitage’s side of the bed, perhaps in hopes of making him slip to his death. Though Poe had assured him that Beebee was just slow to warm up to strangers, Armitage suspected that the dog disliked the new addition to his long-term duo and was plotting the death of his master’s partner beneath a façade of cuteness.

“What the hell is going on?!” Armitage shrieked.

He staggered into the kitchen, _his_ kitchen. He and Poe had reached, or at least he thought they’d reached, an unsaid agreement that the kitchen was Armitage’s domain, precisely for this reason. Poe’s former college roommate Finn had disclosed all the horror stories of Poe evacuating an entire dormitory in an attempt to cook mac and cheese at midnight on sixteen separate occasions. Being the sensible man he was, Armitage had therefore made a note to take control of the cooking.

“Hold on, hold on!” Poe said. He was standing on a precarious footstool, trying to reach the smoke detector. “I’m getting it!”

Tired of seeing his husband struggle due to his short stature and even more tired of listening to the alarm, Armitage decided to help.

“Get down!” he said. “I think I can reach it.”

Poe stepped down, somewhat reluctantly. Armitage placed one foot on the stool, which shook beneath him.

“This is unstable,” he observed. “I’m going to need something more stable.”

“What was that, Tage?” said Poe. “I can’t really hear you over the alarm!”

“I said I need something more stable!” Armitage shouted.

Poe scanned the room for an alternative to the stool, but found none?

“Just step up!” he said. “I’ll hold you, so you don’t fall!”

Armitage had often heard people say that “hindsight is 20/20” when describing plans that sounded like good ideas but turned sour. In some cases, the present was also 20/20, and plans which were evidently horrible from the start were still selected against all better intuition and reason. This was one of those times.

“Alright,” Armitage said. “If I fall and die, it’s your fault.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘if I fall and die, _it’s your fault_ ’!!”

He stepped onto the stool once more, this time with both feet. He felt his body leaning dangerously backwards as he reached for the switch on the smoke detector. Two hands encircled his thighs from behind, “balancing” him in the most awkward way possible. Armitage rolled his eyes.

Beebee had come out of the bedroom and started barking. Even Millicent, who was normally reserved, had joined in with an unusual burst of yowling. This was all they needed: more noise, at 6:00 AM in the morning.

“Can you reach it?” Poe asked.

“Yes, yes,” Armitage says. “I think I have it now…”

He breathed a sigh of relief as he found the switch and silenced the alarm. Unfortunately, this bit of peace was short-lived. The stool, which had given many warnings of distress early on, tilted to the side, sending Armitage and Poe falling backwards onto the ground.

“Are you alright?” Armitage got to his feet, wincing. He could imagine it now. Broken bones and bruises. The perfect holiday treats.

“I’m fine,” Poe said, dusting himself off. “Just a little bruised. You okay, Hugs Babe?”

The fact that he was whipping out the original set of pet names meant Poe knew he was in trouble. Armitage narrowed his eyes.

“I’m as fine as I can be,” he said. “What the hell were you doing?”

“Um… cookies,” Poe gave a sheepish laugh and gestured to the oven.

Sure enough, there was a tray of something vaguely resembling cookies inside. From what Armitage could tell, they were burnt to a crisp. He hurried over to remove the tray.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Armitage asked. “I know how you cook… all the ‘improvisation’. No wonder you almost burned down the flat!”

“It was just a bit of smoke!” Poe protested.

“Oh. Is that the same thing you said to your dormmates the sixteen times you set off the smoke alarm?”

“I thought you said you’d stop bringing that up. You weren’t even there when it happened! Also, the sixteenth time wasn’t me. It was Rose Tico’s mini taser science fair project that almost set the building on fire, but everyone assumed it was me…”

“And of course, you made a mess.” Armitage looked at the pile of dirty dishes and batter-splattered counters in despair. Why any cookies recipe required ten bowls and a cocktail shaker was beyond him. “Really. Why couldn’t you wait for me to wake up? You know I never sleep past 7… and I rarely see you up past noon on the holidays, for that matter.”

“I wanted to surprise you, Hugs,” Poe said. “I know you’ve been busy with work and don’t have time to bake your favorites this year, so I thought it would be nice…” He exhaled heavily. “Sorry about all this.”

Armitage stared at him. He was used to feeling both exasperated and touched by his husband’s actions. Somehow, Poe always managed to make the two sentiments combine harmoniously. It had been like that from his first attempts to woo Armitage, exasperating the security at the military academy with his unannounced visits and suspiciously wrapped gifts, to the long-winded corny monologue he’d forced his partner to endure before he finally pulled out the engagement ring. There were plenty of times when Armitage just wanted to scream at his partner’s foolishness, and he did often enough, but this was an exception.

“It’s fine,” Armitage said in spite of himself. “That was… nice of you to try to do that… idiotic, but nice.”

Poe grinned. Armitage both hated and loved those grins…

“There’s a batch that didn’t get totally burnt,” Poe said.

Armitage tried not to cringe as his husband took a plastic container from the counter full of deformed baked goods.

“Are you trying to poison me?” he asked.

“You know, I did lose track of a few ingredients along the way,” Poe replied. “But I’m still pretty sure there wasn’t anything toxic on the list. They’re gingersnaps with extra spice, just the way you like them. Come on.” He took out a cookie. “Don’t you trust me?”

“Only if you eat one too,” Armitage conceded. He wasn’t going to go through this alone. “If I die, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Sure. Nice dramatic effect. Like Romeo and Juliet.”

“Shut up and give me the damn gingersnap.”

Armitage eyed his “cookie” warily. He’d read somewhere that humans were biologically programmed to be disgusted by things they ought not to consume. It took significant effort to silence this instinct, but he had great willpower.

The first bite sent both of them rushing for a glass of water. Armitage had suffered through a plethora of baking disasters, the most recent being Thanisson’s sour sugar cookies at the staff holiday party, but never before had one _burned_ his tongue. He downed an entire glass of ice water in a matter of seconds, a welcomed but uncomfortable alternative to having his mouth on fire.

“What. Did. You. Put in there?!” he gasped.

“Like I said, I can’t remember all the ingredients,” Poe said. “But there was one weird thing about this recipe. I thought a ½ cup of cayenne peppers sounded off, but it never goes well when I improvise too much, so I thought I’d follow the recipe.”

“Where did you get this recipe?” Armitage asked. “The fires of Mordor?”

Poe retrieved a printout from the kitchen drawer. Armitage snatched the recipe from him and immediately spotted the problem.

“¼ _teaspoon_ ,” he said. “A teaspoon is very different from a cup, and ¼ is very different from ½.”

“Oh,” Poe said. “I guess I misread it.”

“You most certainly did.” Armitage sighed. “Thank you for the nice gesture though…”

“Well, I think I’ll throw these out,” Poe said, taking the plastic container away from Millicent, who had leaped onto the counter to give the culinary disaster a few disgusted sniffs. “I do miss your gingersnaps though.”

Armitage had to agree with that. It had been an abnormally busy month at work, trying to work out the contract with Calrissian Co.’s installation of solar panels at their headquarters in New York. Every deal they’d tried to negotiate had been compromised by First Order Solar Industry’s latest manager, Ben Solo, who was favored by the company’s president for his “fiery passion”. The same passion had also scared away a number of prospective business partners, despite Armitage’s best efforts.

When he wasn’t busy preparing for a dinner with guests or trying to assuage battling in-laws (he still didn’t see why his father had insisted on coming over this Christmas), Armitage had spent most of his brief time off work catching up on an abysmal sleep debt. There hadn’t been any time for baking, but perhaps that could change today. There was something therapeutic about crafting a gingersnap army, as childish as the activity was (assuming, of course, it didn’t involve shrill smoke alarms, rickety stools and agitated pets).

“I think I might have enough time in my schedule to make a small batch,” Armitage said. “A two-hour window should be sufficient.”

“Sounds good, Hugs,” Poe hesitated before adding, “I can help if you…”

“You can watch if you insist,” Armitage interrupted for both of their sakes. “I suppose you can help me decorate later.”

“Okay. I’ll need a picture of some of your colleagues then to get the likeness. I know you always enjoying biting the heads off their edible counterparts.”

“Do you think you can do Ben Solo’s hair in icing?”

“I have just the right picture for that.”

Armitage gave a half-smile. Sometimes, his husband sparked good ideas, and sometimes was fine enough.


End file.
